


Start with My Name

by kentuckybarnes (hannah_jpg)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Just a little dash of angst for you, Loopy Bucky, Sour Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 09:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15816522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/kentuckybarnes
Summary: Things get out of hand during a strike mission against Hydra, and you’re responsible for cleaning up the mess.





	1. Chapter 1

The gush of blood through your fingers isn't stopping. Cursing under your breath, you take one sticky hand away and rummage through your backpack of medical supplies, searching frantically for gauze. Dark smears appear on the everything - that'll be a nasty clean-up job later. When you finally get to the gauze, you tug it out - it unravels into a white pile, and finally you push it into the gaping wound to staunch the flow.

"Keep breathing, Barnes," you tell him through gritted teeth. "We'll get this cleaned right up and Bob's your uncle."

His eyes are fluttering shut, his head lolling against the grimy rust of the bunker wall he's leaning against. Crouched on the floor at his side, you watch his face carefully for signs of shock. His color is still good, remarkably, but he definitely doesn't look well.

"Damn," he mutters. His voice is weak.

You reach into your bag again, searching out a dose of a blood coagulant. Keeping the pressure on the worst looking of the gunshots, you find it - tearing off the lid with your mouth (it's not really the time or place to worry about that sort of thing.)

"Your arm," you say. He obliges wrongly, and you add in annoyance, "Not the metal one, dingus."

A ghost of a smile flips on his pale-looking lips, and he lifts his flesh arm onto his lap where you can reach it. Your hands full, you give him a brisk order and he tears open the sleeve, revealing the tanned muscle underneath. Without waiting you plunge the shot into his arm. He winces.

"What, was that worse than getting gunned down?" you ask him innocently.

"Maybe a little," he replies, his voice a little hoarse. "I expect Hydra agents to hurt me. Not you."

"I think I'm going to be hurting you a bit more before you're good to go."

The blood flow has slowed slightly; whether that's from the coagulant or Bucky's super-healing, you don't know. But it's safe enough now that you can take your hand away, and leaving the gauze in place, you gently start unbuckling his vest to further examine the damage.

As secret as the Avengers missions are meant to be, Hydra had been prepared for this one. Bucky, first into the bunker, had borne the brunt of Hydra's defenses. The remainder of the team was elsewhere dealing with that, and the corridor where he had fallen was deserted apart from the pair of you. This was exactly why the team needed a medic - it was an old debate, and one that you're glad Natasha won.

You let out a low breath as you peel away Bucky's top, revealing and incredibly messy, banged-up torso. "You should get your money back on this bullet-proof vest," you tell him, glancing at his face with a wry smile.

"Or Hydra should stop inventing better bullets."

"Both good options." You count four gunshot entries. No exits through his back. Great.

"Tell me, doctor," Bucky says. He's scrutinizing your face. "How long will I live?"

"Another seventy years, if I have anything to say about it," you say starchily. You produce another shot; this one for the pain. "This might make you a little sleepy," you warn him. "But it's the only safe pain management I have to go with the vitamin K. Can you stay with me?"

He sighs, closing his eyes briefly. "Always."

You deliver it, and toss the empty vial next to the other discarded items slowly piling up. Bucky lets out a long, slow breath, shifting slightly where he's sitting.

"Whoa," he says. "Whoa. That worked fast."

"Stay with me, soldier," you say, louder this time. His head is lolling again, and you grasp his chin and tilt his head so that he's looking at me. "Talk to me."

"'Bout what?" His words are slurred.

"Anything." Quickly you pull out a few necessities; tweezers, iodine for disinfecting and more gauze for clean up. A syringe of nanoparticles to seal up the holes.

"I can't think very straight," Bucky mumbles. "Shouldn't you be talkin' to me?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"You...could…" He trails off, licking his lips. "Start with m'name."

Baffled, you glance up from the entry wound you're dabbing with iodine. His eyes are unfocused, flitting around your features. "What are you talking about?" you ask lightly, returning your attention to the task on hand. "I say your name all the time."

"No, you don't." Bucky licks his lips again. "Y'call me...Barnes, sergeant, soldier…ever since I joined."

"Oh?" you ask, to keep him talking. Your eyes on the bullet you're working on extracting.

"S'times you call me pal or buddy…'nd you called me Buckaroo once." Bucky breaks into a groan as you pick out the slug of the bullet, dropping it onto a piece of gauze. It's whole. That's good. He's reasonably lucid, too, even if he's talking nonsense.

"Dunno why," he continues on, his voice rough. "Doncha like me?"

"Of course I like you," you say quickly, sealing the first hole with nano-tech.

"'Cause you like everyone?"

"Well - yeah."

"So I ain't nothing special."

If this is what Bucky's talking about, he clearly must not be in very much pain at all. You smile to yourself as you prepare to extract the next bullet. "Well, sergeant," you say lightly. "You sure pick a funny time to flirt."

"See...just as I was sayin'...you won't say m'name."

You exhale sharply. "Bucky. Are you satisfied?"

He blinks several times, his pupils dilating. Uh oh. But he doesn't faint, and his head bobs in a slow, clumsy nod. "It's distracting to flirt with you."

"Then by all means, go on." You pick out the second slug.

"I've been wantin' to ask you out for a while," Bucky continues after a moment. "But I always figured ya'd say no. Since y'don't like me, and all." His metal arm is whirring next to you, but it doesn't move. You try to ignore the fact that your heart just skipped a beat - you're supposed to be treating his wounds!

"I like you just fine, Bucky," you say softly, and glance up briefly to meet his eyes. He blinks. "Though to be fair," you add, rising in volume as you start on the third wound. "I also know better than to ask someone out while I have four bullets in my belly."

"Only two left," he says, and his lips lift in a semblance of a grin.

"Four - two - does it really make a difference?"

"Maybe not."

Finally, the last hole is sealed with handy nano-tech. Four nasty, gore-stained bullets are on the ground. With an antiseptic wipe you clean off Bucky's chest and stomach as best you can, but there are still dark streaks of drying blood. Gathering up all the trash you've made, you stick it into a hazardous waste disposal bag, and search around in your things until you find some food.

"Open your eyes, sergeant," you say, a little frantically as you see that his head has drooped again. It snaps up - not very fast, and his eyes try to fasten on your face. You shove a juice box under his nose. "Drink," you order. He does, slurping the sugar until it's gone. You tear open a granola bar next.

"Steve's gonna give me a hard time for this, huh," Bucky muses, chewing around a mouthful of granola bar.

"Nah," you say. "Sam might, though. Steve's been shot before; he knows what it's like. He'll feel sorry for you"

"Ugh." He groans, closing his eyes as he leans his head back against the wall. "It was me. I shot him."

The woefulness in his voice makes you giggle, and you tear the latex gloves off your hands before zipping your medkit shut. "Then maybe he will tease you," you tell him, swinging on the backpack.

"I deserve it."

"Not really. Are you ready to stand?"

Bucky's jaw clenches, but he gives a short nod. You grasp his arms and help him to stand; his shoulder hits the wall as he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. Clearly woozy. The food should have helped; some things you'd just have to wait out.

"Take your time," you remind him, glancing around. "I haven't seen or heard anything, so the action must be somewhere else."

"Can't believe I'm missing it."

"You should be glad you're missing it." You duck under his flesh arm so that he can lean on you, and the weight nearly staggers you. "Think of how much grief Sam would be giving you," you grunt, trying to help him prop up. "You'd be useless."

"Probably right."

"I'm always right, Bucky," you say as he slowly puts one foot in front of the other. You brace your hand to his chest to keep him from teetering, careful to avoid any sore areas.

"So, you gonna go out with me?" Bucky asks in a mumble.

You're panting for breath - this man is heavy. And you can't help but think that he was likely to forget this incident all together. He probably didn't actually want to go on a date with you; pain medications always makes people a little strange. So to agree would just be to create an awkward encounter another day. You decide to hedge the question: "Ask me later, when I'm less stressed."

"You can't be stressed," he scoffs. "You're so damned calm."

"It's my job to be calm, you goober. Unless you want your on-site medic shrieking and panicking and running around like a headless chicken."

He gives a dry chuckle. "Guess not." A few more steps towards the bunker door the team had entered through; it's still propped open, and the Quinjet is about 500 years from the entrance. Hopefully Bucky would make it that far. His breathing is ragged, and to your dismay, he continues to talk instead of saving his breath. "You'd still look pretty, if you were a headless chicken," he says decidedly.

"That's ridiculous. If I were a headless chicken, I suspect I'd look just like a headless chicken." You pause to keep Bucky hoisted as he drags one foot, and then the next over the metal lip of the door. The sunshine outside the bunker is blinding, but you keep a hold of him as the pair of you trek forward. "You're a terrible flirt when you have gaping holes in your chest," you mutter under your breath, feeling aches starting in your shoulders and back from Bucky's weight.

"That's what the nurses always said...in Europe…"

"How about you stop talking, since keeping you lucid is clearly not working, and concentrate on getting on the jet."

The bunker is in a remote forest somewhere in southern Canada; you aren't exactly sure. But the air is fresh and piney, clearing the scent of Bucky's blood from your nose. The sun is pleasantly warm on your neck as you trudge forward - clearly those in charge of building Hydra outposts have little interest in comfort.

The ramp of the jet is lowered, and Bucky grunts as he steps upward. "Just a little further," you tell him, out of breath.

"Got it."

Inside, you help him to gently sink onto a seat against one wall. While he rests, eyes closed, you pull on a few levers to turn the seats into a makeshift bed. Bracing your hands on Bucky's shoulders, you slowly lower him so that he's resting on his back. His jaw is clenched from pain, and you feel his forehead, where sweat has broken out.

"It doesn't look like you have a fever, at least," you say. "Stay still. I need to check your vitals."

"Yes'm."

While you're waiting for results from the machine you've hooked Bucky up to, the com in your ear dings, and you hear Steve's voice. He sounds exhausted, out of breath.

"How is he?" he asks.

"Just fine," you say back quietly. "For now. When we get back, he'll need a more through check in the infirmary."

"We just finished in here. Nat's shutting down their tech, erasing their files. Then we'll be out."

"Roger that." Bucky's vitals look good, but his face is still. You pat his cheek. "You still with me, Barnes?"

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbles, turning his head. "I thought I told you not to call me that."

"You didn't."

"Then I'm telling you now. Did I imagine you agreeing to go out with me, too?"

You bite your lip as you pack away your supplies in an overhead bin. "Yes, you definitely imagined that."

"I have to keep asking," Bucky says with a deep breath. "I figure the only way you'll agree is if you feel sorry for me."

"Then you've picked the wrong time." You sit at the edge of the bed, watching his face carefully as he tries to focus on you. "I don't feel sorry for you at all, Bucky. Four bullet wounds? Puh-lease."

"Ha, ha," he replies sarcastically. "You know, for a medic, you're really unsympathetic."

You give a little chortle. "Well, I'm no therapist. If you want to see one - "

"Later," Bucky interrupts. He's biting his bottom lip now. "So, will you go out with me?"

He's nothing if not persistent. You consider hedging again, but with a surge of pity of you pat his metal hand, limp on the bed. "Of course, Bucky."

There's no way he's going to remember. It makes you a little sad; had he asked when he was lucid or when the situation wasn't tinged with danger, you would have agreed wholeheartedly. But there was no way you'd hold him to this. He would never have asked if he was thinking straight.

"Why the sad eyes?" Bucky is frowning, and he tugs his metal fingers from beneath yours to touch your face, gently stroking along your chin. You shiver.

"It's nothing."

"It's gotta be something, babydoll."

Your eyebrows shoot up as your lips part in surprise. He'd never called you anything like that before - the medicine must be messing with him more than you thought. You stare at his pinched brow a moment, and then laugh. "Look who's gettin' on my back about calling him nicknames," you tease.

"You have the cutest dimples." His metal thumb strokes your cheek as his lips twist into a smile.

"And you are talking nonsense," you coo. "Are you nauseous? Dizzy?"

"No, doc."

"I'm going to get you something to drink."

"I don't want anything to drink." There's a hint of whining in Bucky's voice as he frowns up at you. "I wanna know why you're sad."

Well. He wasn't going to remember anyways. So you gently take his hand, and lower it from your face. "Because if you were thinking straight, you wouldn't be asking me out," you say, softly and plainly. "You're only doing this because you're out of your mind. That makes me sad. I...really do like you, Bucky. More than I should. That's why I don't call you by your name. It's easier to keep you at a distance that way."

His brows draw together into a dark scowl as you speak. "That's what you think, huh?" Bucky asks hoarsely.

"Well - yes."

"That's bull."

There's a red flush rising up his neck and into his cheeks, and with concern you check him for a fever again. Warmer than a normal human - but usual for him. It must be his super-healing starting to take over. Maybe he wouldn't need tissue regeneration after all.

"How about you rest awhile," you say in a neutral voice, avoiding the topic at hand. Even if he didn't remember this, you would - and you've admitted more than enough.

"Fine," Bucky replies after a moment. "But I'm gonna prove you wrong, alright? We're goin' on a date."

"Ok, Bucky." You smile, fondly pushing away some hair from his face. "Go ahead and close your eyes. The team will be back soon"

He narrows his gaze at you slightly, but then gives a nod, and obeys.

You take a deep, cleansing breath as you stand, shaking out your aching limbs. The Quinjet is silent, and so you wander to the front where you can keep better track of how the team's doing. It's easier to put Bucky out of your mind away from his presence, but the sadness stays.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand: a follow up! Hope y'all enjoy!

The resounding knock on the door of your apartment on Saturday night isn't wholly unexpected. It's about time the landlord show up to fix the leak in your kitchen sink, since you'd told him about it four days ago. You're deciding on some choice words for him as you trudge to the door. But when you unlock it and pull it open, it's not your landlord - it's Bucky.

You stare. He's wearing a hooded jacket, dark pants, and sturdy boots - that's normal enough. And the lopsided grin on his face is not unusual. But it's that he's  _there_ , outside your apartment. How did he even know where you live when you're not on duty at Avengers Tower?

"Hi," he says awkwardly, when you don't say anything.

"Oh! Hi, hi," you blurt in a rush. "I - I didn't think - "

Bucky brandishes the hand he was hiding behind his back, revealing a handful of bright flowers, wrapped in cellophane. Your jaw drops to the floor.

"We had a date, remember?" he asks.

"Uh - "

"And you thought I'd forgot." His smile has a smug tilt now.

"Yes, I did," you say faintly. "I really did."

"I wanted to surprise you," Bucky adds. You glance down at yourself - sweatpants, grimy shirt, cracked nail polish. Typical day-off wear. Typical _-I don't expect to see anybody today-_ wear.

"Well, you certainly did that," you tell him sardonically. Evidently you appear less-than-pleased (baffled is the best description), because the smile on Bucky's face immediately slides off. He shifts his weight, as if hesitant.

"Sam...said that women usually like romantic surprises," he says after an awkward moment. "I'm sorry, I - "

"Sam's pretty much right," you interrupt. "I guess." With warm cheeks you reach out to take the flowers before Bucky lets them fall to his side in dejection. Smiling broadly up at his lightening face, you take a deep whiff of pleasure. "Thank you," you tell him. "I love lilies."

He returns your smile, looking like a giddy schoolboy. Standing aside, you nod your head in invitation for him to enter.

"How're the wounds?" you ask him, partly out of habit and partly just to say something. You close the door behind him as he steps into the living room, head tilting as he looks around.

"Oh, I'm fine. Didn't even scar."

"Really?" This interests you - the supersoldier serum always has fascinating effects, and never the same between different bodies. Steve had a scar or two, and from less severe wounds. Maybe it was the nano-tech. You make a mental note to study this further.

Bucky turns in the center of the room, and quirks a brow at your expression. Without a word he jerks up his jacket, revealing a good deal of bare, tanned skin, and...no scarring.

"Wow," you murmur, impressed in spite of yourself. Automatically you reach out, touching the places where you had pulled the bullets out. No difference in skin texture or color. Then you realize that you're touching Bucky's bare stomach in the middle of your apartment, and you jerk your hand away. "You're a medical intrigue," you say, cheeks growing hot. " _Ahem_." And you turn to rush to the kitchen, murmuring something about getting water for the flowers.  _You're a medical intrigue?_  What a dumb thing to say!

To your surprise, Bucky follows at a slower pace, and as you rummage through the cupboards for a large enough cup, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms. You try to ignore his very noticeable presence in your kitchen. It's not easy. You end up sloshing water everywhere as you haphazardly shove the flowers into the vase.

"I ruined them," you say pitifully.

"Nah," Bucky says, reaching over to flick a half-broken stem. "You've improved them. They were looking too perky."

You stare at him a moment, and burst into laughter. The ridiculousness of the entire situation is too much. Bucky, in your home. Bucky, bringing you flowers. Bucky, remembering the date when he was drugged half-out of his mind. Still chuckling as you shake your head, you place the flowers on the kitchen windowsill (they'll look very pretty in the sunlight), and with Bucky staying loyally beside you, you make for the living room again.

You sit on the couch, and gaze expectantly up at him until he sits, too. He has to fold himself inwards to fit; you had not bought the couch thinking you'd be entertaining super soldiers. He looks comically large, and you hold back a smile.

"Is it alright if we stay in?" you ask, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. "I'm not really dressed to go out…"

"Oh, of course," Bucky assures you hurriedly. "I know I came by unexpectedly. In fact, if you want me to leave - " He braces himself on the armrest, as if you stand. But you shake your head.

"You can stay," you say. "I mean, if you don't have anywhere else to be."

His face splits into a smile. "I don't."

"Oh. Good."

Bucky's eyes flit around the room again, studying your decor with an interested expression. You don't realize you're watching his face until he turns back to you, and your cheeks warm once more.

"Here I was expected the team medic to sass me all evening," he says, teasing gently. "What's up with that?"

You bite your lip, unable to hide a smile. "Well, Barnes. I have a different on-duty and off-duty persona. Didn't you know?"

"Guess not. Why's that?"

He's asking  _all_ the hard questions. You think for a moment before replying, "Well, there are rules in medicine. I know how to stitch a gash, how to set a broken bone, how to treat shock. I know the procedures. But there aren't any rules for how to talk to a guy I'm interested in."

Bucky blinks. He's considering your answer, and a sudden thought crosses your mind.

"Like, I forgot to even offer you something to drink," you add, closing your eyes briefly as you groan inwardly. "I don't know these procedures, just like I said."

He starts to laugh - it's a warm, open sound. You like it. Well - you've always liked Bucky. Of course you like his laugh.

"Water?" you ask, standing up. "Tea? Hot chocolate?"

"Water's fine."

Your back burns as you leave, as if he's watching you. Great. At least he doesn't follow you this time, and when you return you two glasses of ice water, you haven't spilled a single drop.

"How about this," Bucky says without preamble, leaning forward to accept the cup. "Since we haven't really talked like this before, how about we alternate telling each other something."

"Um...something?"

"Anything. A fact, I guess."

You nod slowly, unsure of this new idea. "Okay…"

"Truth be told, I'm not really sure what to do either," Bucky confesses, a tinge of red appearing in his cheeks. "But let's give it a shot, yeah?"

"Okay." Taking a sip of water to brace yourself, you shift on the couch until you're sitting on your feet. You think quickly, and take a breath. "My grandmother grew lilies in her garden. That's why I love them."

"She was a gardener?"

"Well - no. It was just her hobby. She had almost an arch of her yard just full of random flowers." You smile, momentarily distracted by the glint in his blue eyes. "Your turn."

There's a smile tugging at Bucky's lips. "I had a scar above my left knee from where I got caught jumping Mr. McClanahan's fence with Stevie in 1926." He pauses, his eyes searching your face. "I didn't realize it was gone until six months ago."

"Oh," you say in a small voice. "Um - "

His expression crumples into a wince as you fumble for something to say, and he rubs his brow ruefully. "Shouldn't have said that last part," Bucky grumbles. "I killed the mood."

"No, no. It's fine." You wet your lips. "How about this: Natasha is the worst Avenger to treat when she's wounded or sick. She doesn't like to admit she needs help. She the least patient patient I've ever had."

A low laugh comes from Bucky's broad chest - oh wow, your attraction for him really isn't cooling it. Your cheeks flame as he simply says, "I hate lima beans. Always have."

"I always turn on the subtitles when I watch TV. What's up with movies having quiet dialogue and wall-shaking explosions?"

"Sam once turned the voiceover of a movie we were watching to Russian and I didn't notice until halfway through the credits," Bucky admits.

You bite your lip, but it doesn't stop an embarrassed, highly amused smile from forming. "Oh, Bucky, I'm sorry. I gave Sam that idea."

His lips part in surprise. "You - what?"

"Sam was chatting with me about how frustrated he gets with everyone speaking all these languages," you confess. "He considered taking an online class and blowing ya'll away with his newfound skills. I just suggested something much more hilarious and less expensive, that's all."

Bucky has been blinking at you, confounded, as you speak. You offer a tentative grin at the end, and finally he relaxes, shaking his head. "I can't believe it," he says mournfully. "You always seem so...wholesome. And I got the butt-end of  _that_ joke."

"I thought he'd play it on Natasha," you say. "I really did. Sorry, sargeant." Bucky's eyes flicker to you, his brows drawing together dangerously. Swallowing past your suddenly dry throat, you mumble, "Bucky."

A smile is threatening at his mouth. "Thank you."

"Um, yeah. Your turn."

Bucky leans back into the couch, stretching his arm out on the backrest towards you. His fingers twitch, but his gaze doesn't stray. You swallow again. "I almost didn't come tonight," he says softly. "I got too caught in my own head, thinking you'd say no. That you'd only said yes because I kinda coerced you." He pauses, and you find yourself drawn into his gaze, unable to think very much at all. "Steve had to give me a fifteen minute pep talk before I was brave enough," Bucky says at last. "He went with me to pick up the flowers."

"Well isn't that cute," you murmur. Your hand is resting on the cushion between your bodies, and hesitating only a moment, Bucky reaches over and grabs it. You smile and say, "Steve tells me stories about you, sometimes."

"Oh, no."

"I thought you were better with the dames, sargeant. What's your deal with me?" It's the bubbling emotion, the confidence of his blue eyes connected to yours so intensely that makes you speak. He grins.

"It ain't 1943 anymore, sweetheart," he drawls, a hint of a Brooklyn accent just coming through. "Anyway, maybe you shouldn't listen to everything Steve tells you."

You raise your brows. "Are you inferring that Captain America may have  _lied_  to me?"

Bucky shrugs. "He's been known to stretch the truth."

"Do tell."

He thinks for a moment, and a slow, creeping grin grows on his face. "Sixth grade. We were outside during lunch hour and Steve tried to rescue a kitten from a storm drain. Got clawed all up and down his trousers and shirt, all over his face and hands. Dropped the cat in the gutter." You start chortling, thinking of Steve bested by a kitten. But Bucky leans in close, his voice lowering. "At least, that's what he told the teacher. He actually got into a fight with Billy Backhand after Billy started kicking a shop assistant about a block from school."

"Oh, no! Billy must have had quite the nails on him."

Bucky nods, his eyes bright. "Stevie was getting knocked around pretty bad before I heard him squealing and cussing. So I got Billy's arms behind his back and let Steve return the favor."

"Didn't Billy go to your school too?" you ask. "Shouldn't he have gotten in trouble?"

"Nah, he was older."

"Older?"

"He was eighteen."

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Steve, Steve…"

"Hasn't changed much, has he?" Bucky's grin is wide. He's pleased that he amused you, or so you guess. You give a laugh. He's still holding your hand, and you don't know quite what to say. Or what to do.

"Is it my turn?" you blurt. He inclines his head. You lick your lips, taking a breath as you think. Buck is still holding your hand, which makes it difficult. "Well," you say at last. "I'm glad you came tonight."

He studies you for a moment after this confession. Then, "I've been sweet on you ever since you fixed Clint's dislocated shoulder on that mission to South Africa. I like a woman that doesn't get ruffled when a man's cussing her out. It shows real spirit."

"Oh,  _that_ ," you say, laughing. "I had forgotten about that. He really was a jerk, wasn't he?"

"He doesn't handle pain well, clearly."

"Unlike you," you tease him. "Asking me out when you're high on adrenaline and pain meds."

Bucky's eyes soften as he gazes at you. "Wouldn't have been brave enough, otherwise. And it's your turn to tell me something about you, sweetheart."

"Let's see…" you make a show of thinking. "I think I started crushing on you the first time I saw you working on your motorcycle in the basement garage."

He blinks.

"I dated a guy who fixed cars in high school," you explain. "I guess I have a type."

Bucky's brows twist in confusion.

"You know...sweaty, dirty hands, muscles all over the place…" you try to defend yourself, but it's only sounding worse. Your cheeks are hot again, and then you notice that Bucky's shoulders are shaking - he's laughing!

"Well, if that's all it takes!" Bucky says with a final chuckle. "I guess I shouldn't have been so apprehensive about asking you out."

"Probably not," you agree stiffly.

"Is it my turn?" he asks.

"Yes, go ahead."

His eyes flicker on your face as he grows still. Then, taking a breath, he says, "I want to kiss you."

"Oh." Your voice is very small as your mind reels - did he really just say that? He wants to kiss  _you_? The guy you've had eyes for for the last several months? Good looking, charming Bucky? You swallow, searching for something to say.

Bucky's grin spread across his face. For the first time, you see a shadow of Steve's self-proclaimed ladykiller. This annoys you - you'd thought he was as nervous as he'd said, but clearly his confidence was growing. Yours is not. So you scoff, rolling your eyes as you tug your hand away from his.

"Listen, if you want to thank me for saving your life and picking four bullets out of your stomach, the flowers will do," you say firmly. "No kissing necessary."

He snorts. "Sometimes a fellow just needs an excuse."

"Then maybe find a different one."

The game is clearly over. Hesitating only a moment, you mention Clint's latest antics trying to prank Tony, and that leads to a blessedly less-heated discussion on inter-Avengers drama. It's a favorite topic of yours, mostly because it's so ridiculous, and Bucky - who usually takes a backseat to those sorts of things, is eager to laugh along as the two of you swap stories.

The next time lull in conversation, you glance at the clock on the wall, and blink in astonishment - it's been three hours. Bucky twists in his seat to follow your eyeline,, and you see him wince slightly at the clock.

"I'm sorry," he says at once. "I've overstayed my welcome."

"Not really," you tell him with another smile. Your cheeks ache from laughing so much. "I would've told you if I wanted you to leave."

Bucky's answering grin warms you from your head to your toes, but he stands to leave anyways. You follow behind him to the door, which he pulls open, and hesitates before stepping outside and turning back.

"Thanks," he says. "Thanks for letting me crash your evening."

"No problem." You watch him with interest, but he doesn't look like he's about to say anything more. All that going on about a date, and he never officially asked. Typical. "So…" your fingers clench on the doorknob. "Could we do this again sometime? I mean, go on a real date?"

A smile creeps on Bucky's face in the dim light of the hallway. "I thought I was supposed to ask you."

"Well. I can't wait around forever, you know."

"I like a brave girl. How about next Friday?"

"I'm free."

"I guess it's a date then." He shifts, and then leans forward quick as a flash, and plants a quick kiss on your cheek. "See you later."

"Bye." The word is strangled in your throat, and you can't quite tear your eyes away from Bucky as he saunters down the hall towards the stairwell. You stay there long after he's gone, and then you shake yourself, bounding back into your apartment as if on clouds.


End file.
